Ahead of All Parting (25 page)

Fourteen or fifteen years must have gone by before I became aware of this. It happened during my first stay in Paris, when I was attending, with a good deal of enthusiasm, the anatomy lectures at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, in which I was attracted not so much by the complex interweaving of the muscles and sinews or the perfect accord among the internal organs, but rather by the arid skeleton, whose restrained energy and elasticity had already at that time become visible to me in the notebooks of Leonardo. However deeply I puzzled over the structure of the whole, it was too much for me; my attention always returned to the study of the skull, which seemed to me to represent the utmost achievement, so to speak, which this chalky element was capable of, as if precisely here it had been persuaded to strain all its forces into a decisive function, so that it could take something which had been ultimately dared—something which, in a narrow enclosure, was already boundlessly active again—into its most solid protection. The enchantment which this strange container, shut off from every kind of outer space, exerted on me, finally became so intense that I procured a skull, in order to spend many night hours with it; and, as always happens to me with Things: it wasn’t only the moments of deliberate attention that made this ambiguous object truly my own—, unquestionably I owe my intimacy with it, in part, to the passing glance with which we unconsciously examine and take in our customary environment, if it has even some slight relationship with us. It was this kind of glance that I suddenly stopped in its course and focussed, exactly and attentively. In the often so strangely awake and challenging light of the candle, the coronal suture had become strikingly visible, and I immediately knew what it reminded me of: one of those unforgotten grooves which had once been scratched by the point of a bristle onto a small roll of wax!

And now I don’t know: is it because of some rhythmic peculiarity of my imagination that ever since then, often at intervals many years apart, again and again the impulse arises in me to leap from this
abruptly perceived resemblance into a whole series of unprecedented experiments? I must admit that whenever this desire has made itself known I have treated it with the most severe mistrust,—if proof is needed, it lies in the fact that only now, more than a decade and a half later, have I made up my mind, cautiously, to communicate my idea. Nor is there anything I can add in its favor except its stubborn recurrence, which, without the slightest relation to the rest of my concerns, now here, now there, in the most diverse circumstances, has continually taken me by surprise.

What
is it that keeps suggesting itself inside me? It is this:

The coronal suture of the skull has (this assertion would first need to be investigated, but let us assume it is true) a certain similarity to the wavy line that the needle of a phonograph engraves onto the receptive rotating cylinder of the machine. But what if you tricked the needle and, for its return path, directed it along a groove that didn’t originate from the graphic translation of a sound, but already existed in nature—, all right: let’s be quite explicit: along (for example) the coronal suture—: What would happen?—A sound would have to arise, a succession of sounds, a music …

Emotions—, which? Incredulousness, timidity, fear, awe—: yes, which one of all the emotions that might be possible here? prevents me from suggesting a name for the primal sound that would at that moment come into the world …

Putting this aside for now: couldn’t
any
kind of lines, appearing anywhere, be put under the needle and tested? Couldn’t any contour be, as it were, prolonged in this way, so that we could then feel it, transformed, approaching us in another sense-realm?

*

It wasn’t until I became interested in Arabic poetry, in which the five senses seem to have a more simultaneous and equal share, that I first realized, with a shock, how unequally and isolatedly the modern European poet makes use of these informants, of which only one, sight, overburdened with world, constantly overwhelms him; how feeble, in comparison, are the reports that come to him through the inattentive ears, not to mention the apathy of the other senses, which act only off to the side and with many interruptions, in their circumscribed areas. And yet the fully achieved poem can arise only on condition
that the world, acted upon simultaneously by all five levers, appear in a particular form on the supernatural level which is, in fact, the level of the poem.

A woman to whom these thoughts were proposed in a conversation exclaimed that this marvelous capacity of the senses to act together simultaneously is simply the presence and grace of love,—and in saying this she (parenthetically) testified to the sublime reality of the poem. But someone in love is in such magnificent danger precisely because he has to depend on the mutuality of his senses, which he knows can come together only in that single, dared center where, giving up all dimension, they converge, and where there is no duration.

As I express myself in this way, I have before me the diagram I used as a pleasant expedient whenever ideas of this kind forced themselves on me. If we picture the world’s whole realm of experience, including all its areas that exceed us, as a complete circle, it is immediately obvious how much larger the dark sectors are, which stand for what we are incapable of experiencing, compared with the other arcs representing what is lit up by the searchlights of our senses.

Now the situation of someone in love is this: he feels himself suddenly placed in the center of the circle, that is to say, where the known and the incomprehensible presses together in one single point, becomes complete, becomes possession, though, to be sure, with a removal of all particular details. This transposition wouldn’t help the poet, for him the minute particulars must remain present, he is obliged to use the sense-sectors to their full extent, and thus he must also wish to extend each one as far as possible, so that someday his tucked-up delight may leap through the five gardens in one breath.

As the lover’s danger lies in the undimensionality of his stand-point, the poet’s lies in his awareness of the abysses that separate one order of sense perception from the others: these are, in fact, so vast and so engulfing that they could easily tear the greater part of the world—and who knows how many worlds—away from us.

A question arises here: can scientific research significantly enlarge the extent of the sectors on the level which we have assumed? The acquisitions of the microscope, the telescope, and all the other devices that displace the senses upward or downward—don’t they lie in a
different
layer, since most of the increase gained in this way can’t be penetrated by the senses, and thus can’t be truly “experienced.” It
may not be premature to conjecture that the artist, who develops this five-fingered hand of his senses (if one may call it that) to an ever more dexterous and more spiritual grasp, is working most decisively toward an expansion of the various sense-areas, although his substantiating achievement, which is ultimately impossible without the miraculous, doesn’t allow him to put the areas he has personally gained on the open, general map.

But to someone who is looking for a means of establishing the ultimately urgent connection among realms so strangely separated, what could be more promising than the experiment suggested in the first pages of this memoir? If, here at the end, it is proposed again, with the previously affirmed caution, may the writer be given a certain degree of credit for resisting the temptation to arbitrarily carry the hypothesis further in the free movements of his imagination. The mission to do this, neglected for so many years and reappearing again and again, seemed to him too limited and too explicit.

—Soglio, Feast of the Assumption, 1919

Forty Drawings by Balthus
Preface

Who knows cats?—Do you, for example, think that you do? I must admit that, for me, their existence was never more than a tolerably risked hypothesis.

Animals (don’t you agree?), in order to belong to our world, must enter into it a little. They must consent, however partially, to our way of life, they must tolerate it; otherwise, whether timidly or with hostility, they will measure the distance that separates them from us, and that will be the way they relate to us.

Take dogs: their confidential and admiring nearness is such that certain of them seem to have renounced their most ancient canine traditions, in order to adore our habits, and even our errors. This is precisely what makes them tragic and sublime. Their decision to admit us forces them to live, so to speak, at the very boundaries of their nature, which they constantly pass beyond with their humanized gaze and their nostalgic muzzle.

But what is the attitude of cats?—Cats are, quite simply, cats, and their world is the world of cats from one end to the other. They look at us, you say? But has anyone ever known if they really deign to lodge for a moment, in the depths of their retina, our futile image? Perhaps, in staring at us, they are quite simply facing us with a magical refusal of their forever complete pupils?—It is true that certain persons among us allow themselves to be influenced by their charming and electric caresses. But let them remember the strange and abrupt distraction with which their favorite animal often put an end to the effusions which they thought were reciprocal. They too, these privileged persons admitted into the presence of cats, have been disowned and repudiated time and time again, and, even as they still held the mysteriously apathetic animal in their arms, they felt themselves stopped at the threshold of this world which is the world of cats and which they inhabit exclusively, surrounded by circumstances that none of us can ever guess.

Was man ever their contemporary? —I doubt it. And I assure you
that sometimes, in the twilight, the neighbor’s cat leaps across my body completely unaware of me, or to prove to the bewildered Things that I don’t exist.

*

Tell me, am I wrong to get you involved in these considerations, when my real purpose is to lead you toward the story my small friend Balthusz is going to tell you? True, he
draws
the story, without speaking to you any further, but his images will more than satisfy your curiosity. Why should I repeat them in another form? I would rather add what he has not yet said. But first, to summarize:

Balthusz (I think he was ten years old at the time) finds a cat. This happens at the château de Nyon, which you probably know. He is allowed to keep his small, trembling discovery, and he travels home with him. Here is the boat, here is the arrival at Geneva, at Molard, here is the streetcar. He introduces his new companion to domestic life, he tames him, he pampers him, he loves him. “Mitsou” consents, joyously, to the conditions set forth for him, although occasionally he breaks the monotony of the household with some frisky and ingenious improvisation. Do you find it excessive that his master, when taking him for a walk, ties him to this annoying string? It is because he distrusts all the whims that pass through this tom-cat heart—loving, but unknown and adventurous. He is mistaken, though. Even the dangers of moving to a new house take place without a single accident, and the small, capricious animal adapts to the new surroundings with an amused docility. Then, all at once, he disappears. The whole house is in an uproar; but, thank goodness, it is not serious this time: Mitsou is found in the middle of the lawn, and Balthusz, far from scolding the deserter, installs him on the pipes of the beneficent radiator. I think you will appreciate, as I do, the calm, the plenitude that follows this anxiety. Alas, it is just a short reprieve. Christmas sometimes turns out to be much too filled with temptations. You eat cookies, without really keeping track of how many; you get sick. And to recover, you fall asleep. Mitsou, bored with your too long nap, instead of waking you up, runs away. What a shock! Fortunately, Balthusz is feeling well enough to rush off in search of the fugitive. He begins by crawling under his bed: nothing. Look how brave he is here, all alone, in the cellar, with his candle, which he then carries as an emblem of the search, everywhere, out to the garden, into the street: nothing! Look at
his small, solitary form:
Who
has abandoned him? A cat? —Will he be consoled by the portrait of Mitsou that his father recently sketched? No; there was some kind of foreboding in it; and loss begins God knows when. It is definitive, it is fatal. He goes back into the house. He cries. He shows you his tears with his two hands:

Look at them carefully.

There you have the story. The artist has told it better than I can. What is left for me to say? Very little.

*

Finding a Thing is always enjoyable; a moment before, it wasn’t yet there. But finding a cat: that is unheard of! For this cat, you must agree, doesn’t entirely enter into your life, as, for example, some toy would do; even though he belongs to you now, he remains a bit outside, and that always means:

life + a cat,

which, I assure you, adds up to an enormous sum.

Losing a Thing is very sad. You imagine that it is in pain, that it gets broken, that it ends up in some garbage heap. But losing a cat: No! that is not allowed. Never has anyone lost a cat.
Can
you lose a cat, a living thing, a living being, a life? But losing a life: is death!

Well then, it is death.

*

Finding. Losing. Have you really thought about what loss is? It is not simply the negation of that generous moment which came to gratify an expectation you yourself never imagined you had. For between that moment and loss, there is always what is called—rather clumsily, I agree—possession.

Now loss, cruel though it may be, can have no effect on possession; it ends it, perhaps; it affirms it; basically it is just a second acquisition, completely inner this time, and intense in a different way.

That is what you felt, Balthusz; no longer seeing Mitsou, you began to see him even more.

Is he still alive? He survives in you, and his joy, the joy of a small carefree cat, having given you pleasure, now puts you under an obligation: you had to express it by the resources of your laborious sorrow.